


At the End of the Day

by Capostrophe



Series: At The End of the Day [1]
Category: Bread (TV)
Genre: Benefit Fraud, F/M, Family unity, Fix-it fic, Future Fic, Marriage, Non-Canon Relationship, Post-Canon, Second marriage, Social Security, Turning a blind eye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capostrophe/pseuds/Capostrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'She lectures him about morality, he hides money in the teapot. But they're happy, and Heaven knows they deserve to be, after all they've been through.'<br/>In which Joey can't shake habits of old, and there is an animated discussion between siblings regarding the wearing of trousers in relationships.<br/>Set a few years after the show finishes, married!Joetina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the End of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much a fix-it to bring Joey and Martina together whilst bearing in mind their canon relationships (and dynamiting them. I may go back and do a prequel for each of them to show how they split from Roxy and Shifty respectively). This is set about four years after the show finishes. For some reason though, I imagined Joey to look like Peter Howitt in 'Coasting' while writing this.  
> References to both earlier and later episodes (though I'm worried about some details, being as I am only sketchy on series 5 onwards, though I'm trying to be as meticulous as I can) as well as to 'Mrs Boswell's book of Bread', the info in which I consider canon.

**1995**

**~~X~~**

Joey awakes only three hours after he went to sleep, grey light streaming in through the window and a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

'Mmf. Not yet.' He buries his face in his pillow, pulls the silk sheets up around his neck, only to have them ripped off again.

'Come on. Up.'

Joey groans. 'I'm asleep.'

'Clearly you're not.'

'Hnn.'

Sharply: ' _Joey._ '

He sits up, rubbing his eyes, which seem to weigh tons and drag his whole face down. Good night, though. Just like the good old days, before the tax man and the organic business and all the mess that he's got to show for the last few years of his life. He's made a fairly large bundle of cash- his Mam would be proud. Still contributing to the family pot, even though he's left home, and even though it's not a chicken-shaped dish he's depositing it all in now, it's a…

'I've made you a cup of tea,' a warm mug is pressed into his hand, and he pauses with it halfway to his mouth. Oh, no.

'Kind of you, sweetheart,' he smiles guiltily, knowing what's likely to come next. She's found it.

Martina lowers her face to his, and through his sleep-blurred eyes he can read the slight hint of amusement mixed with whatever emotion it is that compels her to lecture him. Joey pretends to be extremely interested in his beverage, putting his finger through the curls of steam that issue from it with faked fascination.

'Remember yesterday, when we had that talk?' her voice is dangerously sweet.

'Vaguely,' he mutters.

'That talk about things we discussed _not_ doing?'

'Perhaps,' he reaches sleepily for her, catching her face in his hand, 'but how about discussing things which are perfectly acceptable,' he kisses her, 'like this.'

'Mm,' she laughs, her face inches from his, but it's still quite a fatalistic sound. 'Don't try and distract me. You know it doesn't work.'

'Is this about why I came home so late last night?'

'Oh, no. I know where you were.'

Without meaning to he spits tea all over the bedspread. 'You do?'

 _Now_ he's wide awake.

'I know _everything.'_

'I am merely tryin' to keep you in the lavish manner to which you have become accustomed, sweetheart.' He grins brightly- or as brightly as he can when he's still weighed down by lack of sleep and has the feeling he's in for it.

'Oh, don't do that face. I don't want to hear yer excuses at this time in the mornin'. Besides,' a wry smile, 'I've always known what you get up to. If that were the issue, we'd have had this conversation a year ago.'

Joey counts back. 'You've known since the beginning?'

'Course I have.'

'And you never mentioned this because…?'

'Oh, I liked to let you think you were bein' clever and enigmatic.'

'But I _am_ clever and enigmatic.'

'If you say so, dear.' She shifts closer, wraps her arms round him.

'But we're strayin' away from the _point_ here, Joey. Regardless of what _heinous_ ,' (she drags out the word) 'way you earn your money…' the falsetto voice is back; he can tell she's revving up to whatever she wants to tell him off about.

He swallows the dregs of his tea, sensing what's coming and bracing himself.

'Now look, for the purposes of this conversation, I don't care how you come by all this cash- but for all our sakes, _stop_ hidin' it in the teapot! I stewed eighty pounds this morning!' She slaps a mushy wad of paper into his upturned palm, and Joey stares forlornly at what remains of the fruits of his efforts last night.

Every now and then, this will happen. Stashing money in a porcelain receptacle is a habit he can't kick, along with saying 'greetings' and hesitating every time he passes a leather coat in a shop, all of which irk her. It's ingrained so deeply into him that Martina, no matter how sharp the scalpel of her lecture, can't cut it out.

Deep down, though, he doesn't think she wants to. He knows that snarky smile of hers too well, has burned it into the back of his brain, has mapped it out over the parchment of his mind and his affections. She might pretend she's cross, but it's all put on. Joey's little habits are endearing to her, really, just as hers are to him.

They're happy.

They bicker night and day about the most trivial of things. She disapproves of his work, his dress sense, his deliberately obnoxious sense of humour. He teases her, coaxes her, gets ticked off when she makes a snide joke about the family one too many times. They argue as a matter of routine.

But they're happy.

And Heaven knows they deserve to be, after all they've been through.

* * *

Martina, Joey thinks, must be the strongest woman he's ever met, and he admires her for it. There have been years of a dead-end job, years of abuse and stress and utter boredom that have stretched ahead of and behind her both, surrounding her, walling her in. There have been years of games lost, and she always the pawn taken a few spaces from the end of the board, always coming away worse for wear. There have been years of hopelessness, of total resignation to a fate she doesn't deserve, where she's persevered through the mires of relationships doomed to fail for mere perseverance's sake, because she is as amazingly stubborn as she is strong, and she won't give in until it's clear cut, one hundred per cent certain all hope is lost and there is no other choice. But then she'll never go back to it.

It's not that she never grumbles. She does, frequently. She can protest the unfairness of it all just as loudly as the next person. But for all that, she doesn't let it break her. She fights back with everything she's got, she rarely cries, and when she does she's still not to be pitied. She'll still rip your head off if you so much as insinuate she's weak.

It's this amazing strength, above all else, that Joey loves- adores- about her. It's the way she picks herself up and puts herself back together that commands his utmost respect. He's seen her do it, watched her reconstruct her iron mask before his very eyes, and it's a wonder that rivals even the pyramids in his mind.

And somehow, amongst all this, she's come to be his strength, too. Throughout all the strife and woes, the legal messes and moral tangles which have seen his own family look at him in disapproval, she's been quietly there. Her sternness is the perfect complement to his recklessness. Many's the time it's all gotten too much, and the temptation to just drive away to the middle of nowhere and stay there has been enormous, but her deep-seated realism has grounded him, her forceful reminders that running and hiding won't do anyone any good have spurred him to stay, to face up to the problems that crash into him head-on. She's held him up through the worst of the worst.

And though she can look after herself, can remain standing through her own torrent of troubles, he stays close by to steady her when she wobbles.

And when Joey wakes in the night after a poignant, painful, Roxy-flavoured dream, tears uncontrollably, wantonly streaming down his face, she's there, a hand on his shoulder and a pair of lips at his ear, a few choice words bringing him back from the past to the here-and-now. And when Martina tosses and turns, moans in her sleep, undoubtedly battling her own past demons again, she needs only to open her eyes, see him beside her and she visibly relaxes. He doesn't speak, doesn't touch her to offer comfort, because she doesn't need it, doesn't want it. His presence is enough to settle her, to give her the little boost she needs to calm herself down.

She is stubborn, though. As he's said, as amazingly stubborn as she is strong. Perhaps more. She's _unbelievably_ stubborn, and her strength can sometimes be her downfall, because she takes it to extremes. Martina's best weapon is not-caring, or pretending not to, and she acts as though being steely and stone-hearted is the best way to avoid heartbreak, as though she doesn't need anything or anyone, ever.

But Joey's stubborn too, and determined to drum into that pretty head of hers that she can rely on him, and though she won't openly admit it, she's learned to…eventually.

They both have their share of misery and heartbreak, and it still eats away at both of them from time to time, but they see it through together, and that alone is enough for them to justifiably say that they are happy.

* * *

'You're a bit late, aren't you?'

' _Greetings_ , Adrian!' Joey says cheerfully, ignoring the nag. 'And how does this fine day find my most cherished and beloved siblings?'

'Don't talk like that, Joey,' Nellie reproves, 'you're beginning to sound like yer Dad.'

Joey takes no notice. Anything anyone says makes Nellie think they're 'turning into their Dad', especially now they're all off and out in the big, bad world without her guidance, save Billy. Jack's only over the road, of course, with Leonora, Adrian's only a few streets away- so they're both still where she can keep an eye on them- and Aveline, being married to Oswald (although Nellie still has some reservations about him, being a vicar and all) is reasonably safe, so, naturally most of these accusations are directed at him these days.

He sits down in his usual spot, grins at the others, and then drops a ten pound note into the waiting pot, remembering recent events involving teapots with a smirk.

'Prayers,' says Nellie, and off they go as always.

It's a tradition- every second week, come rain, shine, sleet or snow, the five Boswell siblings cancel all their engagements and return to the fold for Sunday lunch. They leave their respective partners and children behind- this is an immediate-family only affair- and talk and laugh and throw cash in the pot and say prayers, a replica of the old days before they all got lives and families of their own. Nellie counts down the days, they all know it, and serves up enough food for a group twice their size, which means they always have to cast lots for who takes the leftovers home with them. (Joey and Billy always lose when they argue about it, Billy because he still lives at home, and Nellie'll make him something new tomorrow anyway, and Joey because of the offspring that have flown the nest, he lives the furthest away and has the smallest number of mouths to feed- just his and Martina's.)

'You know, I was reading this article in a psychology magazine…' Adrian begins as they dig into the food.

The others clang their cutlery down.

'What are you doin' reading psychology magazines?' Jack demands. 'You're the poetic one. You only read things to do with breezes and open skies, all in rhymin' couplets…'

'A person can fancy a change now and again, can't they? I can have different kinds of intellectual stimulation occasionally if I want. I do have A-levels, not forgetting.'

So does Martina, Joey thinks, but she doesn't use big, fancy, ridiculous words like 'intellectual stimulation' all the time. Well, not unless it's during an argument she's trying to win.

'So what was this article about then, son?' he inquires.

'It was about positions of power in relationships- you know, quite a large number of men these days prefer being in relationships where the women wear the trousers, so to speak. If what the article says is true.'

'What d'you mean, they like women with trousers?' Aveline is totally confused. 'Oswald prefers me miniskirts…'

'No,' says Adrian, 'not actual _trousers-_ trousers. It's _figurative_.'

'Ooh, I can't stand all these big words. You only use them so you sound like you know more than the rest of us.'

Sometimes Joey thinks Aveline might have a point, but he doesn't voice this opinion out loud.

'What it _means_ ,' Adrian clarifies, annoyed now, 'is that in a lot of relationships nowadays the women are more dominant. It's got nothing to do with the actual clothes- it's to do with who has the power, who does what who says, that sort of thing.'

Nellie scoffs. 'All rubbish, this power and psychology stuff.' And Joey, Jack, Adrian and Aveline all look at each other, because in her and Freddie's marriage, it's quite obvious who, out of the two of them, is the dominant one.

'Julie sometimes wore these little silky trousers,' Billy supplies, missing the mark as always. 'They had this drawstring at the top, and they were a sort of pink colour…they made her look _fat_.'

'There's a perfect example for you, Adrian,' Jack says. 'They've been divorced five years at least, and he still can't get her out of her head. She _owned_ his mind, did Julie!'

' _No,'_ Billy says, 'I've had other girlfriends since Julie.'

'And none of 'em have lasted, have they?' Jack's clearly enjoying this. 'Connie was the longest. Then Imogen- a month, wasn't it?- Abigail, a record with eight days, Saskia, and then, let's see, Cynthia…'

'So I've had a lot of girlfriends, what's that prove?'

'You can't make it last, because you're still thinkin' o' Julie, that's what it means! Because when you were together you were under her bloody thumb!'

'I did 'ave a _child_ with her, you know!'

Some things haven't changed. Some things never will. Billy's rapid journeys to his feet every time he finds some comment or other outrageous are a thing which will transcend time until the end of his days.

'Yeah, and you 'ad to do it all her way, didn't you? The Christening, the wedding, all the clothes Francesca got when she was a lit'le girl…'

Billy's starting to go red in the face. Joey feels it's time to intervene.

'Okay, Jack, we take the point. Sit down, Billy.' He waits til his brother does. 'But you're right of course. That does prove Adrian's theory.'

They have an animated discussion about it over the next half-hour, examining their own lives and coming to conclusions about the matter of trousers.

Jack, they decide, is okay. Though Leonora is older, though she mothers him to some extent, they still have a fairly even balance of power. Irenee beats Adrian by a narrow margin (after Adrian's significantly haggled it down. His siblings have been kind to him, due to the fact that he warns them his masculinity is hanging by a thread.)

'What about me and Oswald?' Aveline asks.

Jack makes a face. 'I don't think either of you win there. You're both too _soppy._ '

'Well I don't know,' Adrian says, 'I do think a vicar's got a lot of seriousness and responsibility about him…'

'Doesn't mean Aveline tells him what to do, though, does it?'

'I don't _tell_ Oswald what to do!' Aveline protests.

'Yeah, that's what we were just sayin',' says Jack. They conclude Aveline is far too little and feminine to be calling the shots, and she agrees, adding that being a model as well as a mother means she has to be soft and delicate and gentle.

'I know one thing for certain,' Joey announces, 'I'm the boss in my house.'

The others look at Joey and then burst out laughing.

'What are you lot all laughin' about, then?' He glances around at his brothers and sister, each of them snickering quite loudly and rudely, Billy going so far as to actually bury his head in his arms (his laughter's still the loudest, and escapes even this attempt at muffling it).

Even Nellie, who's been doing her best not to listen to this conversation, is having trouble keeping a straight face.

'Martina's got you on a _leash_ ,' Jack manages to get out between chortles.

Joey is indignant. 'No she 'asn't! Where _do_ you get that idea from?'

'Where _don't_ we get that idea from?' Jack retorts, his dark eyes twinkling with merriment. 'You do the slightest thing wrong, you go grovellin' to her on all fours!'

'I _don't_!' Joey exclaims, feeling his ego slip a little in its notch. It's humiliating, them making insinuations like this, especially when he's been the head of their family for years and years. Of course, they're all adults now, all with families of their own, they're more equal than they were before, but Joey still feels they're undermining the authority he's always held.

The other four exchange knowing looks at his protest.

'I go where I want, and I do as I please,' Joey insists, 'I'm me own boss, son!'

'Yeah- but that's only 'cause she lets you,' Jack says, 'all she'd 'ave to do would be take your car keys and give you one look and you'd never be goin' anywhere or doin' anythin' again!'

'That's not fair!' cries Joey. 'You're bein' very harsh on Martina- _and_ it's not true, anyway. If anythin', we're equal. Partners. Okay?'

'Now, I have to admit,' begins Adrian, good, sensible Adrian, 'what Jack said might be a bit on the harsh side. What Joey and Martina have is a very comfortable, loving relationship.'

'Thank you,' says Joey.

'But let's face it, Joey,' Adrian says matter-of-factly, 'she does hold more of the cards than all of our women put together!'

Horrid, not-so-sensible Adrian after all.

'She does _not_ ,' he splutters.

But she does, though. If Joey's being honest, he'll admit to himself that she does. Even when he thinks he's pulling the strings he'll turn around and find she's secretly been twitching them all along. The way they became engaged is an example of that- his brothers still mock him about it, and he wishes he'd never told them what really happened. The way she's apparently always known what he gets up to at night is an example of that.

And he's not all that averse to the system they have. Because that's the sort of person Martina is, and he loves her for it.

But if anyone asks, he'll maintain to the death that the trousers belong to him alone.

* * *

'You know what I found this morning, Joey?'

Joey doesn't know, as it happens, but whatever it is, it's going to either lead to a tease or a telling-off, judging by Martina's tone of voice.

'Just remember before you reveal to the world what you have discovered, that we are, in fact, in public, sweetheart, and there are a fair few witnesses about.'

As a matter of fact, they're dining out tonight, seeing as Joey's had quite a good week, and Martina a dreadful one, and they both have an unacknowledged tradition that money plus stress equals a nice dinner.

Martina raises her brows conspiratorially. 'Two hundred pounds, that's what.'

'Your luck's changing,' he says, reaching over with his fork and swiping a piece of food off her plate. She doesn't bother to stop him anymore. There'd been shouts of _'oi! Get yer own!'_ at the beginning, and she used to move her plate as far away from him as possible, prompting him to find more and more creative ways of stealing her food. Nowadays she's resigned herself to the little habit- in fact, he's noticed, she tends to move all his favourite bits and pieces to the edge of the plate, so as to make it easier for him to pilfer them and easier for her to ignore him whilst he does.

'Find it blowin' in the gutter on your way to work, did you?'

' _Joey_ …' warningly, 'you _know_ where I found it.'

He does. He shrugs. 'Habit.'

She returns the shrug. 'Nuisance.' Her voice is almost sing-song; he's not in too much hot water today. The dinner has been rather efficient in cheering her up.

'When one is from a very big and united fam-i-ly,' Joey says dramatically, 'one becomes used to contributin' money for the good of the household- now…' he's got a whole speech planned, one of those ones he knows she loves (and by 'loves' he means 'which irritate her'), but while he's been distracted with thinking up this Homeric epic of an excuse, she's come up with a way to silence him.

And before he realises what's happening, she's leaned over the table and skimmed a mushroom off the top of his dish with her fork.

The speech slips from his mind.

'Eh!'

She spears it properly onto her fork, holding it up to her lips mischievously before popping it in her mouth.

'Get your own!' Joey cries, mock-shocked.

She snorts. 'Hypocrite.'

There are days like this, when they can laugh and tease, despite everything, and they're both just so happy in each other's company they can forget all the hurricanes blowing around them. When they can get their minds off all the myriad of problems they've still to face, and the ones that haunt them from days of yore.

When everything is just so comfortably _right_.

* * *

And there are days, of course, when it isn't.

There are days when too many things clash between them, creating a friction that only needs one to rub the other up the wrong way once more to cause a spark, and then they're at each other's throats and so help anyone or anything that gets caught in the crossfire.

Today it's one of the usual killer combinations- Martina's stress at work and Joey's being fed up with constantly being the butt of Boswell-jokes that have led to a thunderous row.

Sometimes he's not in the mood to hear sarcastic refrains of how- horror of horrors- the country might collapse if Grandad's not properly looked after at all times- and he tells her so, his voice low and scratchy and annoyed.

His indignation with her comment only provokes her own umbrage, because she's just had _enough_ of this, after all the ratbags she's put up with at work today she doesn't need this when she gets home as _well_ , does he hear her?

And so their argument spirals out of control, until, as always, he can't really remember what they were fighting about in the first place, but it's a matter of principle, he can't concede now, after all this, so he simply storms out.

'And good riddance!' he hears her shout after him.

Sometimes they frustrate each other so violently this has to be done, he has to go outside, get a breath of air, get away from her accusations. He stays away for hours, drives around aimlessly in his Jag.

When he gets home, she'll make some snide remark about where she assumes he's been.

And he'll always find it too good an opportunity to pass up, end up delivering an award-winning zinger back, and their fight will soon become a merry one, all taunts about devious Boswells and secret lucrative schemes and frosty-faced DHSS ladies who will never ever _ever_ bring him to justice, even now ( _oh, but I will, you'll see)_ , and the frustrating and the arguing are worth it, he thinks.

Because really, they're happy.

* * *

When Freddie Boswell had an allotment, Joey had an organic produce business. It was boring, reliable, predictable- and about as profit-making as gambling with a pair of twos in your hand, especially toward the end. Joey's gone back to what he knows best, to secret, quiet work in the dead hours of the night, where the money comes to his hand instantly, thick piles of crisp notes that there's no tax on, because he's working for himself and working for cash. Only this time, he's very careful not to enrage the tax man and get himself caught. He's learned a lesson from that, makes sure to cover his tracks a bit better this time around. Plus, he still gets benefits, because even though Martina knows what he's doing, the other clerks don't, and he's still unemployed, if you go by the definition that involves words like 'official' and 'wage packets.' And though there are a lot of raised eyebrows about how on earth he can afford a house where _he_ lives, he lies seamlessly and pretty much gets away with it. It's a good system, he thinks.

And it works. An average of three nights a week working and he's got enough to keep them comfortable, keep them in the house it cost him so much to buy but he so desperately wanted, as well as send the alimony to Roxy, wherever she is, along with a bundle of extra cash for her kid's birthday and Christmas presents, which he hopes actually gets to the lad and doesn't just end up in his ex-wife's purse with the rest.

So Joey ignores all the glossy advertisements for sure-win investments, because he's got all he needs.

There are some days, though, when things don't go his way.

'Got a proposition for you, old friend,' Yizzel's mate says, and Joey looks at his Jag, sandwiched between two other cars, and sighs.

'Yeah, a proposition.'

'Not interested, mate.'

'I think you'll find it'll do you good.'

'Do you good.'

'Oh, yeah? Like the last time, when you nicked a whole heap o' silverware and wanted me to shift it? I could've done _time_ for that, if you 'adn't lost the whole lot in the Mersey.'

'Now now, don't start gettin' on your high horse, Joey,' says Yizzel's mate. 'I've got a brilliant business venture you might be interested in, that's all.'

Joey's quite sure he won't be, but they've cornered him, and the only way out is to feign interest or climb onto the receiving end of something much worse.

Oh, Martina's going to murder him.

'I'm listening.'

* * *

The 'brilliant business venture' lands Joey with a thousand pound fine. Martina's livid.

He endures about an hour of shouting, most of the words of which involve _I told you not to…_ and _if you so much as think you can claim for this, Joey Boswell- from me or from anyone else, you have got another thing coming!_

She then gives him the most spectacular cold shoulder he's ever experienced. It lasts nearly three days, during which he and the sofa become most intimately acquainted, because it's the only part of the house he feels he can go near without being covered by the shadow of her silent disapproval.

'I did it for her, you know,' he tells the couch one morning, after waking up on it for the second night running. 'All me brilliant, lucrative schemes are for her these days, you see, son. Oh, I'll still help the fam-i-ly out, I'll never stop doin' that, but, you know, everythin' we have here, this house, and everything in it- you included- you didn't all come cheap, you know, and somehow I have to…'

'Who are you talkin' to?'

Joey jumps. Martina's standing in the doorway in her dressing gown, something clutched between her hands.

'Oh, er, no-one,' he says, 'just the…sofa.' He knows how ridiculous that must sound.

'You're not goin' daft, are yer?'

'Depends on your definition, sweetheart. If it's daft with worry that me beautiful wife is forever gonna hold this mistake against me, then perhaps I am.'

She shakes her head, moves into the room and sits down next to him, putting whatever's in her hands down on her other side.

'I let you down, didn't I?'

She breathes out. 'Well, not to put too fine a point on it…'

'I intend to pay that fine, you know. Every penny of it.'

'You'd _better_ \- and don't think I'll 'elp yer out.'

'Oh, of course not, sunshine. I'm a _Boswell_. I can think of many clever ways to obtain a thousand pounds.'

And then he realises he's walked into the trap.

'Oh, you can, can you? Well, then, you won't be needin' yer Social Security cheques anymore.'

'Or perhaps not _that_ clever…' Joey begins, but it's too late for that. She's already won. She's toying with his mind, though, which means she must have let him off the hook somewhat.

Joey gives a sigh of relief. 'Well, at least you're okay about it. I thought for a moment you might've wanted to leave me.'

'No, _Mister_ Boswell,' it's always Mister when he's in trouble, _and_ when she's teasing, but he can usually tell the difference between the two, 'I am _not_ okay about it. Not in the least. But why you think that means I'd leave yer is beyond me.'

'Good,' says Joey, slipping his arms round her waist, shuffling closer to her, 'great. Fantastic.'

'Just 'ang on a minute there,' she unwinds his arms, 'I didn't say you weren't still in trouble.'

Joey frowns to himself. He supposes that's justified, and he's surprised she's not angrier still, given the amount he puts her through. He sometimes wonders why she puts up with him at all.

He says this to her, and she looks at him sternly, as if the answer's so obvious he shouldn't need to ask.

'Look,' she says, fixing him with a stare that commands him not to look away, 'why do you think I married you?'

'Because I asked you to.'

'No you didn't. I asked you.'

' _Technically,_ but only after I'd asked you fifteen times already, so really, it was still my idea.'

She tuts. 'Let me rephrase. Why do you think I've _stayed_ married to you?'

'Because you don't like change.'

She smacks him, hard. 'One last guess.'

Joey rubs his smarting shoulder and opens his mouth.

'-I'll hit you a lot harder this time,' she warns, and he immediately retracts the smart remark he'd planned to say.

'You love me,' he whispers. 'Got it right this time, didn't I?'

'Yes,' she murmurs, rewarding him with a soft kiss, and then pulling away to raise an eyebrow at him. 'Lucky for you.'

'Does this mean you'll forgive me my reckless investment?'

' _Well_ ,' she cocks her head to the side, 'provided you never do it again, I might be prepared to.'

Joey beams, putting a hand on each of her shoulders. 'Sunshine,' he announces, 'I am _utterly_ in love with you.' He kisses her.

'And you are gonna be _utterly_ in trouble, Mister Boswell, if you ever do _this_ again,' she says, reaches behind her back and brings out the teapot.

Joey looks on sheepishly as she very slowly removes the lid, dips her hand in and comes out with a handful of banknotes.

* * *

It's an ordinary sort of Saturday afternoon, and as Joey turns his Jag into the driveway of their Gateacre home, he's humming a tuneless, nameless melody. He's tired, but pleasantly so after a day spent with Aveline, Oswald and the kids, both of whom are quite loud and bawdy and hyperactive- such a contrast to their parents. He sees more of Billy in the pair than of Aveline and Oswald – come to think of it, he sees more of Billy in them than in Francesca, who, at eight years old, is a right prim little miniature of Julie.

'Greetings!' he calls cheerfully as he pushes open the front door, slinging his coat on the hook and strolling into the kitchen. She's not there, but she's been there recently- plate and cup still out. He doesn't register them, though, because his eyes are drawn to something in the middle of the table.

He blinks, then does it again, reaches out tentatively to touch…

It's a pot. And not just any pot- it's porcelain and white and shaped like a chicken, and tears spring to his eyes just to look at it. Joey takes it in his hands, takes the lid off, puts it back on, bites his lip.

The light thud of footsteps announces Martina's coming down the stairs, and he turns to her, the pot clutched tightly to his chest.

'Where'd this come from?'

'I bought it,' she says, and then adds unnecessarily, 'for you.'

Joey, who's come over all emotional and can no longer speak, just nods from her to the pot and back again. Martina never comes out with gestures like this. She's not one for a lot of sentiment, not if she can avoid it. She barely writes anything in birthday cards, even, just signs her name- so to have put so much thought into a gift- and an unexpected one at that- is utterly unlike her and totally moving. He wants to thank her, but can't find the words.

She knows, though. He can tell she knows.

'Don't flatter yerself to think I did that _just_ for you.' She smirks. 'I bought that so I'd finally be able ter use me teapot without findin' your stash o'cash in it.'

Joey still can't speak. Sometimes she doesn't understand, not being from a big, united family herself- she barely speaks to her parents and hasn't seen her brother in years- just how much of his mind they all occupy, gets annoyed when he has his occasional pangs of homesickness or acts on a habit that originated in Kelsall Street. But sometimes she just _knows_ him, knows what'll make him happy better than he does.

'Come 'ere,' he says, his voice thick with affection. He shifts the hen to one hand, takes her wrist and pulls her closer, leaning in for a kiss.

'Hold on a minute, Mister Boswell,' she holds up her free hand.

She takes the pot from him and places it back down on the table.

'I'd put that down if I were you. Don't wanna break it straight away, do we?'

'No, of course we don't, sweetheart. But if a tragedy like that _were_ to occur, there's always the teapot to fall back on.'

She cuffs him. He kisses her.

They're happy.


End file.
